Blood Money -Indefinite Hiatus-
by RichardHusky
Summary: A man with nothing going for him, Calvin is ready to give up on life. But when he is inspired by news reports about a four man team of infamous bank robbers, he gathers friends and recent acquaintances to create a group of "flawless" thieves willing to do almost anything for a quick chunk of cash.
1. Chapter One

At 7:32 PM of March 14th, 2008, a Caucasian man wearing an expensive looking, custom black Italian suit walked towards the doors of the _Newman & Grotsby _jewelry and watch shop on Ponsby Avenue with a singular thought on his mind.

Money.

This man was no ordinary man. He wasn't some sort of high up corporate bigot, nor was he famous. In fact, this particular man was a nobody, whom was brought up in a family of nobodies. He was less than ordinary. He was the kind of person that you would look at on the street without a single thought and never think about for the rest of your life. He was the kind of man that you would see in the background of every conversation, every event. But you wouldn't remember him. If you did, which, given his lack of memorability, would be unusual, you wouldn't care to know his name, much less his face.

In fact, even_ if_ you could manage to remember his face, which would be quite the feat due to his positively normal facial features, then there was no chance that he would ever tell you his name. That, of course, would require you to notice him in particular in a crowded area or a public place and walk through all around you in order to say something like, "Hey, I've seen your face before! What's your name?", as if it was an excellent conversation starter.

But no one does that. That's just strange.

He stopped when he reached the doors. He straightened his tie and entered the store, smiling warmly to all around. No one was prepared for what was about to happen next, and nothing could have stopped it. He pulled out a gun and did his business. That same night, the man would be killed. Shot to death by someone that he once called a friend.

Of course, like almost every story or tale, one cannot simply start from the end. In fact, the beginning is the most important part of the equation called storytelling. It is quite like a sandwich. The beginning is like the bottom slice of bread, as the end is the top. You wouldn't want to get sticky dressings or meats on your hands while you eat, would you? Especially not when you have the option to keep your hands clean.

So it would be quite true that starting at the start would be the best choice. And to understand the start of this particular story, you need to understand a man named Calvin Andrew Nicholson.

But let's not rush it. After all, a good story told in a well paced manner is much more interesting.


	2. Chapter Two

In the dead of night, approximately 3:15 AM, on the very early morning of February 7th, 2007, a rattling sound could be heard by the window of a mobile home. The mobile home resided in a trailer park, and was the current residence of one mister Henry Snyder.

Henry, whom his friends usually referred to as Snyder, was your average American citizen. He payed his taxes, he was kind enough to strangers, and he supported controversial issues using an ethical point of view. He had a wicked sense of humour, and he certainly knew how to use it, making even those who were used to his raunchy and uncomfortable jokes cringe. He had lived better days, the past six years being an experienced locksmith and key maker. Now, he spent almost every weekday and weekend greeting the greedy people that walked into his local superstore, earning minimum wage and zero self respect, all the while with a shit-eating grin forced to be pasted on his face.

It wasn't exactly the way he thought things would turn out to be.

Right now though, he was lost in the wonder of his own dreams. He snored softly on his springy and uncomfortable bed as he dreamed about the beach. He was just sitting on a beach, beautiful women on his left and right. He was truly living. He reached down towards a cold beer and put the top to his lips...

And then he woke to the rattling sound at his window, a spit covered corner of his 99 cent pillow in between his teeth. It was probably just a raccoon, they were always fucking with the windows. As he tried to immerse himself back into his perfect dream, the rustling sound continued. No raccoon would be that persistent.

Then, he heard the window open.

His mobile home was split into three rooms. The small bedroom, the miniscule bathroom, and the largest room, a mix between a living room, a dining room and a kitchen. He called it the "Living Space" for convenience. There were only three windows in the trailer, one for each room, and it wasn't in his bedroom. The bathroom door was wide open, but the opening of the bathroom window had a bit of a scraping sound, metal scratching metal, a distinct noise which he certainly would have heard, leaving the only possibility to be the living space window.

He grabbed the ash baseball bat that he kept propped up against his two foot tall nightstand and gripped it with vigor, using it to help him stand up while he was weak with thoughts of sleep. He fumbled for his glasses and placed them on his face, rubbing his eyes as he placed them on his nose. He held the bat with two hands as he took small steps towards the living space. He was ready to fight, but not exactly dressed for the occasion, sporting only a pair of boxers and a lightly stained white undershirt. He could hear the clanking of glass coming from a cabinet. He pushed the bathroom door open with force, and raised the bat in attack.

The intruder failed to turn on the light, so he did not see the angry eyed Snyder lunging at him. When he did notice, it was when the bat struck the glass bottle of liquor he had just pulled from the cabinet, spraying glass and Scotch in all directions. As Snyder raised the bat again, desperate for a straight strike, the intruder backed up into the light switch, turning it on whilst shouting curse words.

Snyder stopped swinging as soon as he heard the voice.

"Shit, man!" The intruder said, raising his hands in surrender. The shifty, twitchy corners of his mouth roughly held a look of fear, and his stormy grey eyes were calculating whether or not he was going to get struck with the bat within the next few seconds. His uneven 5 o'clock shadow ran down all the way to his neck, and held a peculiar scent, a mix of cheap, dollar store cologne and menthol cigarettes.

Snyder lowered the bat, looking only slightly less furious. "God dammit, Cal. What in the hell are you doing in my house this late? And busting in here no less?"

The intruder, Calvin Nicholson, lowered his arms, hesitant, as if he still wasn't sure if the bat was going to hit him. "Just chill, man!" He said. "Get off my case! I just came by to-"

"Get off your case?" Snyder retorted. "Get off of my fucking _property_!"

"I just wanted to get a drink, is all." Calvin said, choosing his words carefully, but with a slight slur.

"I can smell alcohol on your breath already. You don't need a drink." Snyder said, looking up to his liquor cabinet. The key was still in the lock that he kept on the cabinet door, the rushing Calvin not bothering to remove it from the keyhole. "Where did you get the key to the cabinet?" He asked.

"Where you keep it. Under the corner of the rug next to the sink." Calvin replied. "You really need to pick better spots for hiding your shit, Snyder. You know I can find anything."

"Shut up." Snyder shot back. "You're cleaning up this mess and getting out. Now."

"To be fair," Calvin said, stumbling a bit. "You did kinda smash it yourself."

"Yeah, I did, because you broke into my fucking house. Clean it up and take a hike." Snyder said. "If you come back today expecting a drink, then you're shit out of luck, buddy. I buy the Scotch for _me_ anyways."

Calvin scoffed drunkenly. "Whatever, man." He said.

Snyder put his hands on his hips. "You can't just come in my house in the middle of the night whenever you feel like, looking for booze." He said. "You should know that after all these years I still won't put up with that shit."

Calvin and Snyder had been very close friends since elementary school, leaning on each other for years as they grew up in a worthless little town, each new problem backed up by another. When Snyder chose to stay single, Calvin found love in a girl, only to have his heart crushed and stomped on at the end of the relationship. He changed for the worse after that, smoking and drinking daily to relieve his bottomless stress and gambling away his money every few weeks. Snyder hated to see him like he was, but there wasn't much that could be done. He had tried time and time again to help, but the more he pushed, the worse that Calvin became. He no longer leaned on Snyder for support, instead slowly leeching cash and liquor off of him like a parasite. It was painful for the both of them, for both Calvin's health and Snyder's wallet.

"I'm sorry." Calvin said. "That I broke in."

"What do you want me to say?" Snyder asked. "Oh, don't do it again, it's all fine? No. How about, 'Don't do it again, or I'll hit you real hard with my bat.', okay?"

"Alright, man. Fuck." Calvin replied, cleaning up the remaining Scotch and glass. Snyder grabbed the liquor cabinet key and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

"Show yourself out, alright?" He said. "I need my beauty sleep."

As Snyder walked towards his bedroom, Calvin spoke again. "Snyder!" He said.

"Yeah?" Snyder asked, turning around in annoyance.

"You forgot to lock your cabinet." Calvin said, closing it and locking it with the key...

Wait... The key? Snyder looked in his pocket. The key was gone. He looked up. Calvin held the key around his finger, swinging it in a taunt with a giant grin on his face.

"How did you..." Snyder asked. He shook his head. "...Never mind. Get the fuck outta my house, will ya?"

As Calvin shut the window and exited through the door, Snyder lay back down on his cheap, spring filled bed, trying to doze off.

"Crazy shitbag." He said with a grin.

A few minutes later, he fell into a deep sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

At about 11:32 PM on that same day of February, twenty hours later, a woman began walking home from her workplace, planning to catch a train so she could traverse the thirty something miles between her office building and her second storey apartment with a bit more ease. The winter air was just cold enough to prompt the woman to wear her thick black coat instead of the thin, grey jacket that she had left draped over her cubicle chair.

The woman's name was Penelope Fink, and she worked for an accounting firm that was ranked as one of the top firms in the western United States. Her job was to solve problems regarding family wills and trusts, and generally make things easier for her workmates.

Penelope was rather attractive, and her male colleagues took every chance that they could find to try and get into her pants. She had filed several complaints, but they had so far gone ignored, buried underneath running cases. It angered her, but she had always kept a cool head, regardless of what she faced. Eventually, she was going to have to file a sexual harassment charge against someone, that much was perfectly clear.

As she walked along the snow dusted sidewalk, just three blocks from the train station, she decided to take the shortcut she usually took through the narrow alleyway between the street she was on and Gilpin Drive, a block over. She turned into the alleyway and began to walk through it, gazing at some of the graffiti that the local "artists" had painted on to the brick. Her high heel stiletto shoes made needle imprints in the thin sheet of snow with every step, pushing the crystallized rain hard into the concrete beneath. A homeless man sat next to a nearby dumpster with a bottle of cheap whiskey in his hand, sipping the liquid out of a brown paper bag. She walked past the man, keeping her pace as she reached the end of the alley. Right as she was about to turn the corner, another man nearly walked into her, making her drop her purse.

"Oh!" Penelope said. "I'm sorry."

The man lightly smirked. "Don't worry about it." He said. "Need help with that?"

He was pointing at Penelope's purse. "Oh. Oh, no, thank you. I've got it." She replied, bending down to pick up the purse.

"Okay. Have a good one." He said, and continued walking.

She picked up the purse and dusted it off, little tiny pieces of gravel clinging to the leather. As she put her purse back over her shoulder, her phone fell to the ground. "Whoops." She said to herself, and bent over to pick it up. While she checked the screen for cracks, she saw something behind her in her reflection.

Suddenly, an arm went around her mouth, and her phone hit the ground with a loud smash. She was pulled back into the alleyway by the arm, which smelled of whiskey and body odor. She kicked her legs, her stiletto heels sticking into the snow, and grabbed at the arm with her hands, attempting to pull it away from her mouth and nose as she stifled a scream.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch!" The voice behind her said. A knife went to her throat as she was pushed against the wall. It was the whiskey drinking homeless man who had been sitting by the dumpster.

"Help!" Penelope shouted coarsely. The man put a hand to her mouth and pushed the knife against her throat harder, breaking the skin on her neck and drawing blood.

"Shut your goddamn mouth, or I'll cut your throat!" He whispered forcefully. "You heard me? Shut up!"

Penelope's heart was racing as the man grabbed her by the waist and pushed her against the wall chest first. If she screamed for help, she would be stabbed. The man rubbed his hand down her stomach as a tear shed from her eye. She struggled to break free from his hold, but he only pushed harder, lowering his hand down further. Penelope began to sob, and the man put his hand into her pants, feeling her bare skin underneath.

"I..." The man said. "...am going to have some fun with you."

"Hey!" A voice shouted. Penelope looked towards the voice. It was the man whom she had bumped into on the sidewalk. "The fuck are you doing, asshole?! Get the hell off of her!" He yelled, speedwalking towards the homeless man.

The homeless man backed away from Penelope in mock surrender, surprised that he had been caught. The other man took a large step forward and hook punched the homeless man in the jaw, sending him spiraling backwards. He regained his footing, and raised the knife in attack.

"Watch out! He has a knife!" Penelope shouted. The homeless man sliced at him, but the other man grabbed his arm, stopping the knife, and smashed the homeless man's face with his forehead. He stomped on his foot, then kicked him directly in the ass, sending the would-be rapist sprawling on the snow coated concrete.

"Fuck you, asshole!" The homeless man said, getting up and turning around. The other man had struck a boxing stance, looking imposing as the homeless man stared.

"C'mon, shitface! I'm ready for round two. You first!" The man said

"You're fucking crazy!" The homeless man said.

"No, I'm just not a sociopath. Beat it, scumbag!" The man said, giving the homeless guy the finger. The homeless man didn't budge, so the man took an angry step forward. That got him moving. He ran down the alleyway full speed, practically holding his pants up as he sprinted away.

The man sighed. "Are you okay?" He asked.

Penelope nodded. "I am now."

The man nodded in response. "Be safe." He said, turning to walk away.

"Wait!"

The man turned. "Yeah?" He asked.

"I didn't catch your name."

He did the little smirk that he had done before. "I'm Calvin. You can call me Cal."

"I'm Penelope. You can call me... Penelope." She said. "Sorry, that was... dumb."

He chuckled.

"Well... um... thank you for your help, Cal." She said.

His attractive grey eyes flickered to match his facial expression, showing the light look of laughter. "Don't mention it."

"... Could you... walk me to the train station?" She asked as he was about to turn around again. "If it isn't too much trouble, I mean."

Calvin nodded. "It's no trouble. Let's go." He said.

And so they walked the remaining two blocks to the train station, exchanging thoughts and stories on the way. When they reached the platform, Penelope asked Calvin for his phone number.

"Why?" He asked.

She smiled. "Why not?"

"Good point." He said. He pulled out a pen from his pocket. "Do you have a little piece of paper I can use, or...?"

"You can just put it on my hand." Penelope said.

"Okay."

"Mmhmm."

He took hold of her hand gently and pushed the pen against the skin of her open hand, writing the digits to his phone number on her palm.

**729-1077**

"Okay. Have a safe trip." Calvin said, turning to walk in the other direction.

"You too! Thank you!" Penelope called after him. She boarded her train and, as it sped off, she looked out the window to get another look at the man who had saved her from being raped.

But he was gone.


	4. Chapter Four

_I hate this place._

That had been the only thought running through the mind of nineteen year old Troy Hogan while he ran his role as a table waiter on February 13th. It was almost eight o'clock, around 7:55 PM, and he still had another hour until he got off of his shift. He worked at a local restaurant, _Freddy's Grillhouse_, and believed that every moment that he spent in that hole was another moment he could spend doing something that was actually worth his time. The owner was a guy named Fred Stables, and he had to be one of the biggest dickheads on the planet. He practically cracked a whip at his cooks and staff, barking outrageous and inconceivable orders so loud that they could be heard from the outside of the restaurant.

"Troy!" A bold voice yelled. Speak of the devil.

Troy sighed. "Yes, Mr. Stables?" He asked, laying on thick layers of his well practiced kiss-ass attitude. It was the only way to get by at the grillhouse; you could either bow before the fat jackass, or you were gone before he could say leave.

"I need you to pick up the pace!" Mr. Stables said. "There are a lot of hungry customers that need their food taken to them!"

Troy looked out towards the eating area. There were maybe six people in total, two couples and a single customer on either end of the room. The place was dead.

"...But I can only bring the food out as fast as the cooks make it, Mr. Stables." He said. Probably not the best response.

"But _nothing_! Get your rear in gear!" Mr. Stables shouted. His voice made Troy's ears ring. "Take an order!"

Troy sighed. Yes, sir, Mein Führer. He nodded, an empty apologetic look on his face, and turned. Everyone had a menu...

...Except the couple that sat near the window.

Might as well do his job. He walked over to the couple, careful not to slip on the wet floor, a man and a very pretty woman.

"...and so... He..." The man said, chuckling. "The guy turns to me and says, "I think you're looking for someone else, because I'm not a goddamn lawyer."

The woman giggled. She looked up at Troy, and he smiled back fakely in return. "Would you like a menu?" He asked.

"I've already decided. I'll have the 16 ounce steak and fries. Same thing I get every time I come here." The man said, looking to the woman. "How about you, Penelope, what do you want?"

"Hmm..." She said, thinking. Troy's eye twitched in annoyance. "I guess I'll have what he's having." She pointed at the man.

"You sure?" He asked. "It's a big steak."

"Well, the customer is always right, right?" Troy asked, feigning a smile. "I'll get back to you on those steaks. You shouldn't have to wait long."

As Troy walked towards the kitchen to give the order to the cooks, he was stopped yet again by the walking incarnate of evil himself, Mr. Stables.

"Troy!" The large man boomed. Troy let out yet another rage filled sigh.

"Yeah, sir?" He asked. His patience with this lard-ass was running thin, and fast. He looked at the clock. It was 7:59. Nice.

"I thought I told you to take some orders!" He said. "I go into the kitchen for one minute, and you can't even correctly do your job."

"I did, sir. Business isn't exactly booming right now, so it-"

"No excuses!" He said, turning around. "Get back to work!"

Troy's blood was practically boiling. It was like a hot ball of lead was stuck in his chest, and he could feel his face getting red. Every day, Stables said something like this. He stopped Troy in the middle of him working, just to order him to get back to work. It was insane.

"Hey, kid? Can I change my order?" The man behind him said.

Troy sighed. Of course. Now he was going to get held up _again_.

"Yes, you can, I haven't gotten to the kitchen yet." Troy said. "What would you like to change-"

"I'm not changing anything, don't worry about it. Is your boss screwing with you?" The man asked.

Troy hesitated. "I don't know what you mean." He replied.

"Ah." The man said, nodding. "He's got your nuts that tight in a vice, then? I'll handle this."

Troy furrowed his brows. "What are you-"

"Just tell the chefs to cook up our orders. Don't worry about it." He said.

"Calvin, what are you talking about?" Penelope asked.

As Troy walked off towards the kitchen once again, he heard the man respond, but he didn't quite hear what he said.

"Rodney!" Troy yelled into the kitchen. "I need two 16 ouncers with fries, double time."

Troy's work buddy and head chef, Rodney, nodded. "Consider it done." He said, and pulled two fresh steaks out onto the grill.

As Troy waited the other tables and took their orders, he took a few glances at the man and woman sitting by the window. The man had the salt in his hand at one point, and the next time he looked, he was out of his seat, moving the wet floor sign over near another table.

What was he up to?

"Order up!" Rodney said, holding the steaks out towards Troy. He walked to the kitchen window and pulled the warm plates out of Rodney's hands, then began to walk towards the table, careful once again not to slip on the wet floor.

"Here you are." Troy said, setting the plates on the table. "Enjoy."

"I think you're going to enjoy this more than I will." The man said, pulling out his phone. He pressed a few buttons, then waited a moment before putting it away.

"Hmm?" Troy asked, confused.

The man picked up the salt and began shaking it on to his steak. Suddenly, the cap popped off, and the entire contents of the salt shaker fell on to his meal. He feigned a look of shock as the salt fell on to the steak, and he looked up to Troy, furious.

"Let me speak to your manager!" The man said. "What establishment would allow this to happen?"

For a second, Troy thought that he was serious. But he gave a quick wink, then turned back to his food. Penelope was stifling a chuckle as the man displayed the most angry face that he could, surpassing even that of Mr. Stables.

Whatever this was, this was going to be good.

"Mr. Stables?" Troy called, walking to his boss's office. "Excuse me, Mr. Stables?"

Troy stopped at the door of the office. Stables was reading his "important documents". Troy knew better. He was reading the baseball and football game scores to see if his obsession with gambling had finally earned him some quick cash. From the look on his face, it really didn't look like it.

"What!? What now, boy?" Stables asked.

"A customer is furious! He really wants to speak with you, sir." Troy said.

Stables pulled off his stupid looking bifocals and adopted a look of incredulity. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?!" He shouted, almost jumping out of his chair. He ran out of the door and out towards the seating area, where the fakely angry customer looked to be legitimately flipping out over his purposefully over-salted meal. Troy followed, eager to see the results.

By the time he reached them, they had already entered a heated argument. The customer man was already trying his best to make Stables angry, which was neither a smart nor difficult task. Every other customer in the restaurant was staring, obviously intrigued by the sudden shouting match.

"I was just sitting, salting my steak, when all of the sudden the lid came off! Is this some sort of practical joke?" The man asked. The woman was unsure of what to do, she couldn't decide whether or not to intervene or stay back.

"I assure you, sir, we play _no_ jokes here!" Stables said, looking a bit worried. "We treat our customers with the utmost respect!"

"What about your staff, then? I've been able to hear you yelling at your chefs from my seat!" He shot back. "What a deplorable establishment!"

"Sir, I-I-I want to understand why you feel like you do, b-but I..." Stables said. Holy shit! This guy was reducing _Mr. Stables_ to a stuttering wreck!

Suddenly, the man swept his plate of steak and fries on to the floor, sending broken glass and meat onto the linoleum below his feet. Troy moved around towards the door in order to get a better look, his eyes practically dancing.

Mr. Stables was furious. "Why, you... _you're going to have to pay for that_!" He screamed. "_I refuse to be disrespected like this_!"

"Oh yeah?" The man said. "Well, do something about it!"

Troy had heard many sentences uttered from hundreds upon hundreds of mouths, but that one probably took the gold trophy in poor choice of words.

Mr. Stables roared, and lunged at the man, trying to grab his arms, likely to force him out of the restaurant. The quicker customer sidestepped the large man, and Stables nearly crashed into the table. Now the pretty woman was worried. She yelped as Stables hit the chair and fell. A siren could be heard from outside. Stables was in an unstoppable fit of rage now, shouting incoherent words and curses as he went at the man again.

Once again, the man dodged the wrecking ball that was Stables, who afterwards slipped onto the floor, the water on the linoleum making his fall twice as hard. "Son of a bitch!" He shouted.

Customers were trying to get out of restaurant, afraid of being injured. The four people rushed to the door, and the flash of lights appeared from outside. Red and blue lights.

He called the cops?!

Awesome!

Two officers came in through the fire doors just as the customers left, one attempting to hold back Stables, and the other restraining the man.

"Calvin, what were you thinking?" The woman shouted.

"Eh." The man said, shrugging. He really didn't look that worried. "It went according to plan."

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law." One of the cops said.

Troy watched in awe as the man and Stables were pulled out of the glass double doors. Penelope got out of her seat just as the cooks came out of the kitchen. Rodney had a look of surprise on his face.

"Holy shit! They're arresting Stables!" He said.

"What happened?" Another cook asked.

Penelope ran up to the door, her hair bouncing off her shoulders. She looked at Troy with a rotten expression, then hit him on the arm. Hard.

"Ow!" He said. "What'd you go and do that for?"

"It was your fault he got arrested!" She replied, and walked out of the restaurant.

"How?" Troy said under his breath.

That random guy got arrested for him. Why, though? What was his name? Corey? Calvin? That was it, Calvin.

Whoever that Calvin was, he sure did do Troy a favor. Not only did he humiliate Stables publicly, but he ended Troy's shift... about 47 minutes early. Who cared if he might have to go to the station as a witness for a little while? It would be a whole hell of a lot better than staying in that greasy crap-chute.


	5. Chapter Five

As this tale is unraveled to you, you may begin to inquire about certain little things. Or, maybe certain _big_ things. Henry Snyder, Penelope Fink, Troy Hogan. Who are they? Why are you seeing our good friend Calvin Nicholson through their eyes instead of his own, and why are they important? Of course, all of that is still a mystery, at least for the moment. We haven't gotten past the bottom slice of bread yet. You still need to place the turkey, the ham, the lettuce, the mustard, and everything else before you can finish the sandwich, before you can finish the story. So, you ask again. Who are they? None of them are alike. Not one is the same. But they all have one thing in common that sets them apart from most.

Of course, I can't tell you that yet, can I? We haven't even gotten to the best part yet. You've barely had a taste. But you don't eat a sandwich to taste it, do you? You eat a sandwich because you're hungry. Because you need to eat.

But not yet. It isn't time yet.


	6. Chapter Six

Calvin Nicholson sat confidently in one of the overnight cells at the county police station, his heart not skipping a single beat while he began to get comfortable on the stiff cot that was his sleeping area. But he wouldn't be there long, not long enough to go to bed.

Of course, he didn't lay a hand on that rude restaurant owner. In fact, the guy did all of the damage himself. But he still got in a ton of trouble for instigating the conflict. He didn't understand why teaching a lesson was so bad of a thing to do, even if it wasn't in the most reasonable way. The guy was an asshole. He saw the look on that kid's face after he had gotten yelled at, he would have popped like a cork had the owner not toned down his aggression a few notches. The only problem now was the he didn't get to eat anything, and he was starving. Maybe not starving, but damn, he was close to it. He wondered if Penelope had...

Oh, right. Penelope. In the enactment of his plan, he had left the girl sitting in her booth, unsure of whether to run or not. There was always a hitch.

Calvin really did like her. She was funny and she was pretty, he couldn't have asked for more. But she was also smart in a way different than he was. Calvin was more street smart, whereas Penelope was book smart. It was interesting to talk to her, too, unlike most other people. In fact, the only people that he ever talked to now were Penelope, Henry Snyder and a small handful of others. Snyder was a great friend, but Calvin usually went to Snyder's for a couple of beers every once and a while, and not much else.

Oh man, what he would do for a cold drink right now. It had been a few days, but Calvin was trying to kick booze for good after he broke into his friend's house for a Scotch. Not only was being hit with a baseball bat not fun, but he wasn't a calm drunk, he was a stupid one. Going cold turkey on the sauce wasn't the best of plans, however. He was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, and, when he combined that with his damn near chronic insomnia, he lived hell twenty-four hours a day. He last slept yesterday, so, if history repeated itself within the next week, his next rest likely wouldn't be until tomorrow, or quite possibly the day after. Even as he lay on the cot, trying to relax, his hands were shaking almost violently.

"Mister Nicholson?" Someone said.

Calvin opened his eyes and leaned up just the slightest bit. A cop was standing outside of the cell. He recognized the cop, as he had been in this situation many times before, but he had never caught his name.

"The chief of police wants to see you." The cop said, unlocking the cell.

Good. Calvin had been counting on it.

He sat up, rubbing his face with his shaking hands, and extended his legs, stretching. He stood up, cracked his knuckles, and put on a little grin.

"Whatever you say, man." Calvin said.

He reached the cell door, and the cop put his hand on Calvin's shoulder, probably making sure he didn't run off. But why would he? He had been in this place for much worse, and he didn't run. Well, except for the time that he got caught tagging the side of this very police station when he was fifteen, but that was a long time ago.

"Hands off the merchandise." Calvin said, shrugging the cop's hand off. "I know where I'm going. You don't gotta guide me there."

The cop eased off, but stayed inches behind him, breathing down his neck. It didn't make him as nervous as it made him uncomfortable, the officer's breath smelling like coffee and pizza.

Calvin despised mouth-breathing.

The officer walked him to the door of the police chief's office. Calvin knew that this was going to go one of two ways; he was going to get a lecture and be let off of the hook, or he was going to get sent back to his cell to think about his actions, then get released in the morning. He usually preferred the former, but the latter wouldn't be so bad right about now. Especially considering what was going on in his head at the moment.

He put his hand on the doorknob, breathing in and looking at the thick, black Times New Roman font letters on the glass.

**JACOB NICHOLSON, ****CHIEF OF POLICE**

He opened the door.

As soon as Calvin walked through the door, the chief let out an audible sigh. He threw down a file stacked with papers, uneven and disorderly, and folded his hands together. He stared at Calvin with such intensity that if he tried any harder, he likely would have hurt himself.

Calvin cursed under his breath, light as a feather. Every time with this. Even now, after all of these years, those eyes got under his skin, into his heart.

He sat down. Those eyes. His nerve was strong, but the chief's factor of fear got right through.

The chief cleared his throat. "Calvin."

"Dad."

Calvin's father, Jacob Jordan Nicholson, had been the chief of police in the county for the past seven years, and he had always showed a low tolerance for bullshit. His severe attitude was what netted him a job on the force in the first place, and he rose through the ranks faster than anyone ever did, making big arrests on a regular basis and doing good work exchange for recommendations of promotion. He was a popular chief, and he was very well liked, but he was scary if you were alone in a room with him.

That was probably why he cracked almost every guilty suspect he had ever interrogated.

The two Nicholsons sat there, across from each other with nothing but a desk separating them. Jacob waived the escort cop away, and the cop immediately walked out of the door, closing it up with a loud thud.

Calvin wasn't sure if the shakes he was getting were from nervousness or from alcohol withdrawal. Probably both. But he couldn't stop shaking. He always felt ready to face his father in a situation like this, but when he actually got there, his confidence melted.

Jacob sighed. "You can't keep on doing things like this, Calvin." He said. "One of these days, you might actually get in trouble."

"I'm not a kid anymore." Calvin replied softly.

"What?"

"I... Am not... A child. Stop treating me like one."

"Oh, you want to be treated like an adult?" Jacob asked. "Fine. We'll call it assault, and you can deal with it."

"I didn't lay a god damn hand on the guy, I swear." Calvin replied immediately. "He had it coming, anyways. He was an asshole."

"You don't just go around beating up assholes." Jacob said.

"You would be surprised." Calvin replied. "It's basically all I do anymore."

"Which is why you're in here. See where that gets you?"

Calvin's dad had always possessed the ability to twist people's words around and shove them back down their throats. It was a good asset to have in a police officer, but he never dropped the skill when he left the front lines. He might have always had it, too.

Calvin sighed. "So why am I here? Why do I have to sit across from you in this fucking room every time I see you?" He asked. "Are you going to let me go this time, or are you going to keep me overnight?"

"Well, that depends. How many more times are you going to do this crap?" Jacob asked. "I'm not going to bail you out forever. You have to take responsibility for what you do, when you do it."

"I do take responsibility." Calvin snarled. "I was the one who called the cops."

Jacob looked smugly surprised. "Oh, did you now? And why would you do that?"

"Because if I didn't, then I know he wouldn't have been able to afterwards." Calvin said.

Jacob narrowed his eyes. The one thing that he knew was no joke was that Calvin wouldn't have let up on the restaurant owner had he gotten the chance to continue. He had enough self control to pull his punches, but they still hurt, and he wasn't afraid to throw them as hard as he could. He didn't lay a hand on Mr. Stables, but he easily could have beaten the crap out of him.

"Shit like this makes me wonder what you do when I'm not looking." Jacob said.

"You never looked in the first place, so I don't see what you're worried about. You never gave a damn." Calvin replied.

"Don't tell me that I didn't care. You may be a grown man, but I'll take my belt to you yet." Jacob said.

"Was that supposed to make you sound caring?" Calvin asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.

His father was good at making people feel guilty, but have a slightly unfriendly conversation with Calvin, and he would piss you off.

"God dammit, boy, why do you think I've always been so hard on you?"

"Because I was a Juvenile Delinquent and you couldn't change it?"

Jacob sighed. "It's because I always wanted you to do something great. Instead, you drink, you gamble, you... you just don't take advantage of your options." He said. "What ever happened to the teenager that wanted to go to medical school? Or the little kid that wanted to be a cop and follow in his dad's footsteps?"

"People change." Calvin said.

"Apparently not always for the better!"

That sentence hit Calvin like a bullet to the gut. Throughout his childhood and adolescence, even a few years into adulthood, his father had called him many things. A liar. A cheater. A crook, at one point. But never once in his life had he ever implied that Calvin was worthless.

"I can live my life any fucking way that I want!" Calvin said, standing up out of his seat. "You don't have the right to say that I'm living wrong!"

"There's the anger. As usual." Jacob said. "Maybe that's why Audrey left you."

That pushed Calvin over the edge. He picked up the lamp on his father's desk and threw it at the wall as hard as he could, pulling the plug out of the electrical socket and shattering the lightbulb into a thousand tiny pieces.

"Fuck you!" Calvin shouted. "I am a grown ass man! Did I want to be left alone? No! Do I regret my decisions when I was with her? Fuck yes! But do _you_ have any right to taunt _me_ after what happened with mom?"

"What happened with your mother was a misunderstanding!"

"Gee, I don't know dad, she caught you fucking that slut from Vice in her own bed, seems pretty clear to me!" Calvin said.

"You're still talking to your father, you know! Show some respect, you little shit!" Jacob said.

"How can I respect a hypocritical, abusive jackass who rides me because of all of the problems I have, and he can't even solve his own?!" Calvin yelled.

"All you've ever done is make problems!"

"Well, then I guess you made the biggest fucking problem right here, and he's standing right in front of your face!"

"Oh, that much is perfectly clear!" Jacob yelled.

A cop opened the door, obviously confused by all of the commotion, and was surprised to see Calvin punch a hole directly into the plaster wall next to his face.

"Get the fuck out of here!" Jacob said. "The next time you get arrested, which you will, undoubtedly, don't expect a bail out of any sort!"

"Whatever, shitbag!" Calvin said, and he walked out of the office door.

His father yelled something after him, but it was incoherent over the sound of Calvin's boiling blood. What a piece of work. As he walked down the stairs of the precinct to the bottom floor, he lost himself in the same dark thoughts that he had been having when he was lying on the cell cot. Someone near him was saying something, but he couldn't hear them. His only goal was to get out of this building. Then, he would go home, and-

"Calvin?" Someone asked. He turned around.

It was his little sister, Cameron.

Cameron Nicholson aspired to be a police officer when she was a kid, just like Calvin, but unlike her older brother, she stuck to her dream. She was a detective for the precinct now, and a damn good one. Of course, she wasn't a dickhead like dear old dad. Cameron was one of the nicest and understanding people that Calvin knew, and even though they almost never saw each other, they had one of the closest bonds imaginable. Cameron was the one who tried to help Calvin when Audrey left him in shambles, but she knew that he never healed all of the way.

"Oh. Hey sis." Calvin said.

Cameron brushed her short red hair behind her ear. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you did something stupid again."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault." Calvin said.

She sighed. "What happened?"

"I made a restaurant owner beat himself up." Calvin said with a grin.

Cameron giggled. "Why am I not surprised?"

Calvin had always appreciated how Cameron didn't judge his actions. She knew he tried to be a good person, that he was trying to pick up all of the pieces and put them back together. She didn't care how he did it, she just wanted him to be happy.

"Well... nice to see you, Cameron. Take care." Calvin said, and he turned around to walk away.

"You too, big brother!" She called after him.

He exited the building and began walking down the moonlit sidewalk. Before the station was out of view, he looked up to his father's office window. Jacob was looking out of it, and he spotted Calvin. They made eye contact for a moment, and then he shut the blinds.

No matter how brief the conversation, Cameron never ceased to make him feel better about whatever his situation was. Just seeing her with her life packed together made Calvin happy.

But the feeling never really lasted anymore.


	7. Chapter Seven

Calvin walked through the doors of the _Open Arms_ motel, six blocks away from the police station. He had taken his time getting there, taking detours and circling around wherever he could. It had been a solid hour and a half, in fact, since he had said goodbye to Cameron and left the precinct. The wind stabbed through his jacket like a thousand knives, the cold freezing his joints and making him shake more than he already was. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, he had always preferred winter over summer. But he wasn't taking the long road home just to feel the cold winter air.

He had been thinking about it again.

Calvin walked up to the front desk and tapped the bell. The receptionist, for lack of a better term, was a sweaty, greasy man with a baseball cap on his round head. Currently, he was asleep in his chair, ear buds in and music on full blast. This guy didn't even care, obviously. But, then again, Calvin needed his room key.

"Hey." Calvin said. No response. "Hey, buddy. Wake up."

The guy didn't even move. How the hell was he sleeping like a baby with death-metal booming in his ears? Calvin was tempted to just hop the desk and grab his key. Then again, he would prefer not having to visit his father again, so he decided against it. He was going to have to wake the guy.

Calvin looked on the desk. Pencils, pens...

Paper. He grabbed a sheet and began folding it. Hey, if he was going to get this sweaty guy to fork over the key, he was going to do it his own way. After about a minute, Calvin had in his hands a pretty nice looking paper airplane. The wings were even, and he approved of his work. He had always been a perfectionist.

Calvin took a few steps back, closed an eye, and lightly threw the paper airplane, aiming it perfectly into the sleeping man's open mouth.

The man's eyes shot open. He hit the airplane out of his mouth and onto the floor, glaring at Calvin. He pulled the ear buds out of his ears, and sneezed.

"Need your key, kid?" He asked. The guy was in his forties, but he looked almost as young as Calvin, making the question a whole lot more awkward than it needed to be.

"Yeah. 207." Calvin replied.

The receptionist grabbed the key with his fat, sweaty fingers and plopped it into Calvin's hand. "Mmm. Bye." He said, and put his ear buds back in.

What a dick.

Calvin dealt with a lot of assholes, so he was used to how entitled and self-absorbed other people were. It wasn't exactly new. He walked to the stairs and took a few slow steps. He wanted to try and sleep, but that wasn't likely. He wanted to watch television, or play a game, or... anything. Anything that wasn't what was on his mind.

He walked down the hall, battling himself for every step as he looked at his room's door, right at the very end. The cheap lights above his head flickered, and the crappily made floorboards creaked with every step.

He reached the door and held out the key to his doorknob, his hand shaking profusely. He unlocked the door and walked inside, immediately feeling even worse. The place was... crusty. The walls were stained all over the place with unknown fluids and the disgusting looking beige carpet felt almost solid. He took off his shoes and his jacket and rested them on his sheetless bed, and he put his hands to his head. He was having another migraine.

On top of his insomnia, anger issues, cavalier attitude and drinking problems, he received horrible migraines once or twice a month. His dad always told him it was because he drank so much, but they had been getting more intense over the past few months, and he had been having them for the past two years. It wasn't the drinking that was causing them, either.

_"Two years." The doctor had said._

_"What?"_

_"You have two years, Mr. Nicholson."_

According to his doctor, a routine scan revealed a slow growing and inoperable brain tumor in his frontal lobe.

In two years, the cancerous lump would eventually spread, and it would kill him.

He hadn't told anyone yet. He figured it out a little before he had broken up with his girlfriend, Audrey, about nine months ago. He had gotten the news about his tumor, and on that very day, he had gone out to buy a ring, to propose.

They had been dating for three years, and he had never really thought about marrying her. Sure, it had come up, but he felt like if he brought it up and it led to a proposal, it wouldn't have been as special, and left it at that. But then he figured out that he wasn't going to live for much longer. He had to say something. He went to a jewelry store called _The Perfect Cut_ and bought a glistening, beautiful diamond and gold ring that amounted to about eight thousand dollars. It reminded him of her eyes, he just had to get that ring. So he spent a chunk of his life savings on the pretty piece, and he brought her to her favorite spot in the entire city, a quaint little park in Chinatown. He brought her to the bridge in the middle, got down on one knee, and asked her to marry him.

But she said no.

She left him there, wide eyes and all, down on one knee in the middle of the bridge. In an almost cliche turn of events, it started to rain. He walked, with no expression, back to the jewelry store, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces. They didn't even let him return the ring.

That ring sat in its velvet box inside of a Nike shoebox under his bed, where it had sat for the past eight months next to... other things. After a moment of hesitation, he looked under the bed and pulled out the shoebox. He rested it on his lap and looked at it for a moment.

He couldn't. Not now.

He dropped the shoebox, flinching when it hit the ground, grabbed the remote to the television, the only decent appliance in the entire room, and flicked it on. He scrolled through channels, trying to stop thinking about it. He stopped on a news report. A schoolbus crashed into a garbage truck, and four kindergartners died. It didn't exactly help his mood.

Before he even knew it, he had opened the shoebox, which was back on his lap. He kept all sorts of crap in that shoebox. The ring box sat in the upper left corner, turned upside down from when he dropped it. He looked at an item wrapped in paper across from it, and took it out of the box.

He didn't have very much experience to go on, but for a pistol, it was relatively light.

He had bought the gun two nights ago. The thought of succumbing to the tumor wasn't something he was fond of, and, if he had to, he promised himself that he would use the pistol to end his suffering before it started.

There was nothing to really live for anymore. Sure, there was Penelope, but Calvin was sure that the "relationship" wouldn't pan out. She would reject him, or worse. His sister and father could live without him, easily, and he hadn't talked to his mother in years. They would mourn, but they would get over it.

The reason that he took so many detours on the way home was because he was looking for something. Nothing in particular, really. The night that he saved Penelope from being raped, he had been wandering for hours, looking for... nothing. And he happened to find her. He wrote her number on her hand, and they had parted ways. That was the night that he had originally chosen to die, but when he got home, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He cried that night.

So here he was now, finger hot on the trigger and contemplating doing the tumor's work for it. He was done weighing his options. He had to choose. His hands were shaking.

He screamed as he raised the gun up to his head and pulled the trigger.

He opened his eyes. He wasn't dead.

The safety was still on.

He threw the gun across the room and put his hands over his eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears that were coming out. He was ready to die right then and there. The fact that he willingly pulled the trigger without a thought sobered him up. His mind cleared, and he realized what an idiotic person he was being. He couldn't do it. It was stupid.

But what was he going to do?

_"Our top story tonight, yet another robbery has been committed in the south district this morning, here's Frank Rear with the details."_

Calvin looked up. He had heard about the robberies that had taken place recently. He didn't watch the news often, but Snyder certainly did, and he had recanted all of the information during a conversation a few weeks prior. They were a group of four publicly proclaimed master robbers with styles similar to those of another four man team from a couple of years ago. Apparently, everyone thinks that they're copycats, but Snyder said that he thinks that it might be the same four guys, and that they're back in the game. It was an interesting topic, definitely, but he had forgotten about it until just now.

_"Thanks, Anna. I'm here in front of a jewelry store on the south side of town called _The Perfect Cut_-"_

That was the jewelry store that Calvin had gone to for his engagement ring. He grabbed the remote and turned the volume up a bit, rubbed his eyes and continued listening.

_"-And as you can see from these shots here," _The reporter said, a few pictures of broken display cases showing up on the screen. _"The thieves left almost nothing behind. The robbery wasn't reported until minutes after the robbers left the building with bags full of precious gemstones worth over hundreds of thousands of dollars in their hands."_

Calvin realized something at that moment. Something that he really needed to realize. An epiphany, if you will. That epiphany was this; if he killed himself right then and there, then he would leave nothing behind. If he waited for the tumor to kill him, then, just like if he offer himself, no one that he loved would get anything. He didn't even have a will.

...But he could make something to leave behind. It was the only way to do it.

When Calvin was a kid, he, like all other kids, wanted to be rich and famous. He wanted his appearance to turn heads, and he wanted to be able to swim in dollar bills. He wanted a private jet, a yacht, a badass sports car. No, sixteen badass sports cars. Those dreams were far away now, but he never dismissed them.

If he was rich and famous, would be able to pay for insomnia treatment, and anger management, and help with his alcoholism with the snap of a finger. He wouldn't have to break his bank to get a fix from gambling, and he wouldn't have to put a fake smile on everywhere that he went.

He wanted to be rich and famous.

Now he could be both.


End file.
